


robbers

by QWERTYouAndMe



Category: The 1975 (Band)
Genre: M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Robbers AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:20:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25068310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QWERTYouAndMe/pseuds/QWERTYouAndMe
Summary: we fade up from black, and matty is holding hands with a lover.
Relationships: Adam Hann/Ross Macdonald, George Daniel/Matthew Healy, George Daniel/Matthew Healy/Adam Hann/Ross Macdonald
Comments: 7
Kudos: 18





	robbers

**Author's Note:**

> the robbers-music-video-with-just-the-guys au i promised you all. that's it.

we fade up from black, and matty is holding hands with a lover. they are clumsy, drunk on love and cheap beer, stumbling around the streets, unruly and unsightly, distasteful, a blight on the reputation of their small town. they walk in the middle of the road, unafraid of traffic, generally unbothered by the presence of others. nothing in the world can touch them; they are unbreakable, unkillable, immovable objects. 

matty is holding hands with a lover, or two. depends. they are ineffable. they are all that is important in the world, all that matters, all that ever will matter. he is, undeniably, cool. he knows it. they know it. everybody knows it. 

they are filthy. they are depraved. beyond the several bible verses they impugn, they’re big-city-dirty. matty sucks their fingers in public, just because he feels like it. sometimes, they suck on his, too. they kiss — all of them, often and everywhere. they kiss on street corners and in the diner, they kiss at bars and in places where people will see and not dare to call them out on it. the kiss — messy, sloppy, dirty, needy kisses — everywhere, when and wherever they like. they kiss each other in no particular order. they seek out an available mouth and kiss it. 

they dance in their smoky living room. all of the upholstery smells like weed and cigarettes. there are innumerable cigarettes. they care about nothing; the warnings on the front of the box do not frighten them. they will burn out long before they matter at all.

unsteady hands hold joints to other people’s lips. they pass one around the four of them; they shotgun smoke into one another’s mouths, share lungfuls of the stuff through languid, open-mouthed kisses. 

matty wakes up early some days and watches the sky turn from black to grey to milky white. the sun never shines here. he looks like an angel in his white tank top, against the white curtains. george watches him from their bed and tells him so in a sleepy, husky voice. matty doesn’t answer him. the hand holding his cigarette trembles. 

something bad will happen here. 

he watches the grey sky turning white. the hand holding his cigarette shakes. he looks like an angel in his white tank top, against the white curtains. george tells him so. matty doesn’t answer him. 

something bad will happen here.

but he pays it no mind as he kisses his boys, as they sprawl out on their ragged sofa and say filthy, filthy things to each other. hands grip thighs. mouths share smoke and bite down on collarbones. clothes are discarded carelessly; bodies rise and fall against each other. they chase hazy orgasms and then lick each other’s fingers clean.

something bad will happen here. 

so he sings loud. he screams his drunken words into the air, says, _ fuck the neighbours. fuck this neighbourhood. fuck this place.  _

they buy a van and say that someday they’ll drive it out of this town, and nobody here will ever hear from them again. they’re going to get out of here, someday, they say. they have no idea how they will manage it.

there are red lights hanging up in their living room. matty says they’re romantic. they compliment the holes in the perpetually closed curtains. 

they knock about. they cause trouble, get into places that they shouldn’t and do things that they shouldn’t, act tough, act powerful. they act like they’re not burning out. matty’s an angel, silhouetted against the white sky, his skin pale, his jeans dark and torn. he’s an angel in the morning as he smokes with his trembling hands, backlit against the white curtains, and when george tells him so, both times, he rolls his eyes and pretends not to hear. 

they drink and kiss and get into trouble, get into places that they shouldn’t. they fall about laughing as matty pulls one of them — adam, probably — by the hand, and they dance in their trainers on the broken tiles underfoot. they are graceful. they are all that exists. 

unsteady hands hold joints to other people’s lips. smoke is shared between their mouths in the form of needy, desperate kisses. adam sits in matty’s lap and ties his hair back for him, and then kisses him like he’s all that matters. matty, in response, rolls his hips up, makes adam nervous and fidgety, makes him pull at matty’s shirt sleeves and say,  _ let’s head back. _ he wants more than kisses. matty wants to indulge him; wants to indulge all of them. they’re dirty. they’re depraved. he’ll put two fingers into adam’s mouth just because he’s allowed to do it. 

in the morning, matty is an angel, in his white shirt, against the white curtains. he sits on the edge of the bed and smokes three in a row with his shaking hands. they learn to wake up and let him be. every night he wakes from the same snatches of vision; hands, mouths, eyes flashing behind a bandana, fingertips stained red, unsteady hands holding joints to other people’s lips. 

something bad will happen here. 

he loves his boys. there is nothing in the world he loves more than his boys. it’s the four of them against the world; they’re all he has. he acts tough, shrouds himself in this  _ indestructible bravado _ , kisses them messily on street corners and gets into trouble with them, blows smoke into their mouths when he knows people can see, but then in the morning he sits on the edge of the bed and smokes three, sometimes four, in a row, and he’s an angel against the white curtains and george tells him so and matty pretends not to hear. when they’re out and the sun sinks below the horizon and the cold starts to creep in, he shivers and folds himself up against ross’ side, presses his face into his neck, drops kisses over his warm skin, laughs at the scrape of his stubble.

in the morning, when he sits there, sometimes as the boys get to doing whatever it is they do, ross will sit behind him, watch the back of his head, watch his shoulder blades move under his shirt, watch the muscles move underneath his skin, press his face into the back of matty’s hair and breathe the smell of him in deep, kiss him all the way up the back of his neck so he shudders and chokes on his breath. 

they’re all he’s got. it’s the four of them against the world. 

they kiss. they share mouthfuls of smoke. they get into trouble, into places they shouldn’t. they kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss in no particular order, messy and sloppy and dirty and needy, like they’re addicted to one another’s mouths. they dare somebody to say something. nobody ever does. 

something bad will happen here. 

something bad will happen here, but it’s all forgotten when they hold hands and laugh and walk without direction. matty would never say it, but he feels safe holding their hands. he feels like he’s no longer wont to float away. 

he loves his boys. they’re home. they’re everything. they’re all he has; it’s the four of them against the world. home is where his boys are. home is where they smoke and kiss and play music, where they’re messy and sloppy and needy together, where they’re dirty and depraved. home is his boys. he loves his boys. he’d never say it, but he loves his boys. 

he’s never said he loves his boys. he thinks they know anyway. 

he’s not the type to say that sort of thing.

he stands on the table and screams into the cool night air and he pulls one of them up by their wrist and kisses them stupid. they’re all high and hazy and he  _ loves them _ , honestly, he does. 

something bad will happen here. 

every inch of this town. something bad will happen in it. matty pretends not to notice the feeling. george does racket in the bathroom. matty pretends not to notice the blood on his face. he says it’s incidental. when george settles down beside him, matty kisses him all messy and sloppy and dirty. he gets blood on his face. he drags his finger through it and sucks it clean. he isn’t interested in his breakfast. 

something  _ bad  _ will happen here. 

matty doesn’t give a fuck. they own this town. they own this fucking planet. everything and anything concedes to them. they’re powerful. they’re tough guys. they’re scary. they scare people. they kiss and shotgun each other on street corners hoping that someone sees. they get into trouble, break into places they shouldn’t.

matty’s an angel. 

he loves his boys. he gets volatile and angry, sounds off, hits their hands away from his body, sometimes maybe harder than necessary, but he loves his boys. he’s an angel.

he’s never said he loves his boys. he doesn’t say that sort of thing. 

he thinks it’s implied. 

he hopes it’s implied. 

*

matty’s an angel, in his white shirt, with his pale skin, against the milky sky. he hands the joint to adam with fingers that only shake a little bit. 

george thinks so, but bites his lip. something is wrong. something has shifted, now. something bad will happen here. 

matty has a gun. 

three smiles fall dead onto the floor. matty says he’s got this brilliant idea. george says,  _ where did you get that thing? _ , and he’s not concerned. he looks impressed. of course he’s impressed with matty. he’s always impressed with matty. matty says,  _ i’m going to get us out of this shithole,  _ and his eyes are gleaming, and he’s the way he gets when he’s solely focused on one thing and he’ll never let it go, and thinks this idea is brilliant. he says,  _ i’m going to get us out of this shithole. _ ross says, _ that’s not funny, matty. _ matty says, _ i’m being serious. listen to me, _ matty says. matty says,  _ trust me. _ adam says nothing. matty argues back and forth with george and ross for ages, waving it in their faces. adam excuses himself from their conversation, walks until he can’t hear matty shouting anymore, and struggles to breathe. he’s sick on the floor. anxiety grips his chest like an iron fist; he can’t breathe, can’t think. 

_ matty has a gun.  _

ross comes looking for him. they sit on the floor (away from the sick). ross says, matty’s a fucking idiot. adam leans on his shoulder and chuckles, hums in assent. ross says,  _ he’ll come round. he’s just playing at being a gangster. _ adam says, _ i hope so.  _

they both want to get out of here just as much as matty does.

they fall silent. adam can’t shake the feeling that something bad will happen here. he can’t sleep that night, partly because matty’s thigh is pressed against his own and just the thought of touching his skin makes adam’s stomach turn, partly because he just can’t shake that feeling. 

something bad will happen here.

george thinks matty’s cool. he always does. he laughs as matty twirls his gun around, holds him by the hips and kisses him from above, smiles against his mouth, tells him he wants to know how matty plans on getting them out of here. matty tells him exactly how, presses the cold metal of the barrel against the soft, smooth plain of george’s stomach, mimics an explosion. he and george fall about laughing, passing a bottle back and forth. george says, _ i’ll help you. i’ll help you get us out of here. we can do it together. you and me, together.  _

something bad will happen. 

something bad is going to happen. 

something bad is happening. 

matty has a gun.

it doesn’t really change things. that evening they’re still all sat in their smoky living room, with the romantic lights, and matty is talking shit, rambling into the air, and they pass smoke between their mouths as they kiss desperately and they grab at skin and bite at collarbones and everything feels just one degree off from normal. half of them are alive, electric with excitement. half of them are quiet, closed off. worried. aware. 

something bad is happening. 

matty has a gun.

*

he tells them his plan in the morning. he’s not smoking the same. he’s excited; he’s alive with energy, it’s the most alive they’ve seen him in god only knows how long. it’s the morning and he’s here, he’s  _ present _ , he’s not smoking like he normally does. ross and adam are apprehensive, still not sure about his plan, but to see him this vibrant, this wired, so sure that his plan is going to work and they’re _ finally going to blow this shithole wide open _ — it’s beautiful. it’s the brightest, most glorious thing any of them have ever seen.

he tells them his plan. he says,  _ we’ll do it tomorrow.  _

they spend all day preparing. ross and adam slowly come round. they’re going to do it; they’re going to get out of here. they put their clothes into bags and put the bags in the van. they’re leaving. they’re going to get out of here. 

they fuck in this house for hopefully the last time. matty dances on the table. they blow smoke into each other’s mouths. they grab at skin and bite at collarbones and leave hickies upon hickies. they kiss and kiss and kiss until all that exists in the whole world is one another’s mouths. bodies rise and fall against each other. george’s lips are reverent against matty’s skin. 

matty’s an angel. his hair frames his face; his unbuttoned shirt hangs off his back. he’s backlit by the big light; it makes a halo around his head. george leans up and crashes their lips together. matty rides him like they’re running out of time, like the world is going to end sometime soon. george grips his hips hard enough to bruise. as they’re lying there in the afterglow, matty whispers against his mouth,  _ we’re going to get out of here. _ george grins against his lips. 

what they don’t know — or perhaps, what they  _ do  _ know, what they’re ignoring anyway — is that something bad will happen here.

*

ross drives. adam sits with matty in the back. he’s scared. he’s so obviously scared. matty kisses him intensely to try and calm him down. adam can tell he’s nervous by the way he kisses, by the way his hands never leave his hair.

george is on the passenger side. matty keeps kissing him, too, leaning forward and pulling george’s face round so he can capture his lips. 

he’s nervous. they’re all nervous. matty keeps telling himself that he’s in too deep to turn back now. he has to do it. for his boys. he has to do it because he loves his boys. he wants them all to get out of here. 

this is what he has to do. 

he and george both get out of the van at the same time. ross watches them from the driver's side; adam peeks through the open door. george looks at him as if to say,  _ are you ready? _ matty takes a shaky, shaky breath, pulls his bandana over his face. george takes hold of the wrist that’s not got the gun on the end and crashes their lips together. they hold a second of eye contact. they’re doing this. this is what they have to do.

something bad will happen here. matty sees it, clear as day. 

this is what they have to do. 

they walk in step beside each other, slowly picking up speed until they’re running, and matty’s heart is hammering in his chest, and he’s holding the gun in his hand, and george is beside him, and he has to do this because he loves his boys, he has to do this, he has to, he has to do it, has to just be strong for a few minutes, and then when they’re done they can run away, they’ll be gone. but something bad will happen here. matty can feel the knowledge settling over him like a second skin. 

they storm the place, looking scary and brave like the people matty wishes they were. there’s shouting and scuffling and george is holding the bag, and matty is pointing the gun, and they’re shouting, they’re all shouting, and matty thinks they’ve done it, thinks they’ve won, and shots are being fired and he doesn’t know if they’re landing because he’s not even in control of his body any more, he’s just watching from inside his head, and then george is shouting, shouting at him, telling him to get down, to fucking move, and matty doesn’t hear him over the gunshots, over the roaring in his ears, and then pain blossoms just below his ribs and he touches his hand to the place where it hurts and his fingers come away red. 

it’s blood. it’s his blood. he’s been shot. 

he freezes up, stumbles, crashes against a shelf and sends things cascading to the floor. george is cursing, he’s panicking, and matty wants to burst into tears because he’s fucked it up; this was their one chance to get out of here and he’s fucked it up. george says,  _ go, go, matty, _ and matty goes, stumbles out of the door clutching his stomach, and the asphalt keeps rushing up to meet his face, and george is trying to hold onto him, trying to talk to him, and matty can’t hear over the gunshots —  _ there aren’t any gunshots  _ — and the roaring in his ears. 

ross pulls the van around. adam slides the back door open and the two of them struggle inside. ross is driving again before they’ve even closed the door. 

matty is bleeding. he can’t stop crying, can’t stop the tears streaming down his face. every sob hurts like nothing he’s ever felt before. he can’t see, can’t think, can’t breathe, all that exists is this pain, this excruciating, tearing pain. he’s fucked it up, he’s fucked it up. he’s ruined it, he’s ruined everything, he’s ruined their chance. george tries to hold him, tries to calm him down, and matty can’t let himself be touched. he keeps arching and crying, writhing on the floor of the van, and he’s bleeding onto it, he can see he’s bleeding onto it, can see his own fucking blood dripping onto the floor. they keep swerving and the tires are screaming and everyone is shouting, everyone is so frantic and panicked and  _ it’s all his fault, he’s fucked it up, he’s fucked it all up, they only had one chance and he’s sorry, he’s so fucking sorry, because he’s fucked it all up and now they’re never going to get out of here—! _

unsteady hands hold a joint to his lips. it’s adam. he didn’t want to be involved in this whole thing in the first place. matty’s guilt is tangible. george has a hand on his chest, holding him steady. matty reaches up and grips adam’s wrist, doesn’t ever want to let go. 

this is just like his dreams; snatches of vision. hands, mouths, eyes flashing behind a bandana, fingertips stained red, unsteady hands holding joints to other people’s lips. they’re his red fingertips. he leaves bloody smears on everything he touches. he can see his own blood on adam’s wrist. as they tumble back to the house, george holds him steady, supports him through every step, but everything is still on fire. everything is falling apart. he’s fucked it all up. 

_ i’m sorry,  _ he keeps saying,  _ i’m sorry. i tried, i wanted to— i— i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i’m so sorry— fuck, george, i’ve ruined it all.  _

he’s ruined it all. 

he watches them all panicking around him, watches george struggle to keep the blood inside him, wincing when he presses down because it makes matty hiss. he watches adam standing in the doorway, shaking. ross goes to comfort him, shields his eyes. 

there is blood on matty’s hands. there’s blood on all of them. matty’s blood on all of them. he nudges george’s nose with his own as he presses gauze to the bullet hole. george looks up at him, and matty’s never felt such pain in his life, but it’s dulled because george is here. he reaches up to cup his face and kisses him, and there’s love in that kiss, actual love. he loves his boys. when they pull apart, george is grinning. he takes matty’s hand, his bloody hand, and sucks one of his fingers clean. his lips curl into a smile around the digit.

matty draws in a shaky breath, gives him an unsteady smile, and he says,  _ what are you doing? _ george finishes taping the gauze to his stomach, kisses him again, says nothing. he leads him by the bloody hand, through to the kitchen, and the bag is on the table, and matty sees it. 

there’s money in the bag. 

there is money in the bag. 

_ does that mean we’ve—? _

_ we’ve done it, matty. _

matty’s in tears again, but they’re good tears this time. george picks him up and kisses him like something out of a film. he kisses each of his boys on the mouth, puts his bloody hand on their face. 

_ we’ve done it, _ he says. he’s grinning. they’re all smiling. his skin is so pale. he’s an angel.

george watches him fondly as he makes the rounds with kisses upon kisses, as he raises his arms above his head and sways languidly to music only he can hear, warm and triumphant and unbothered about anything else. he watches him all night, happy, ecstatic even, but cautious. they’re celebrating; dancing and singing and screaming at the sky, kissing each other just as dirty as they always have, and they all keep giggling to one another,  _ we’ve done it, we’ve done it. we’re getting out of here.  _

they stay in the house one more night. they’ll leave in the morning. george doesn’t sleep, just watches matty, watches him breathe. as the sky starts to turn, from black to grey, to milky white, george sees matty laying there with his pale skin against the white sheets and his battle wound, and he thinks he looks just like an angel. 

they eat breakfast in the diner. george does racket in the bathroom. matty eyes the blood on his face. george eyes the bloody gauze on his chest. matty kisses him all messy and sloppy and dirty. he gets blood on his face. he drags his finger through it and sucks it clean. george grins against his lips, squeezes his thigh. 

he’s an angel, but he wouldn’t like that. he’s powerful; a tough guy. he’s scary. ineffable. they are all that is important in the world, all that matters, all that ever will matter. nothing in the world can touch them; they are unbreakable, unkillable, immovable objects. george knows this is what matty wants to hear, wants to think, but he’s an angel. with his pale skin and his white shirt, against the milky white sky, he’s an angel, but george knows he doesn’t want to hear it, so he brushes matty’s lips with his own and cups his jaw and settles with,  _ you look so cool.  _

_ you look so cool.  _

**Author's Note:**

> like this? [follow my tumblr @ply-mrs](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/ply-mrs)  
> we do this but more. you can send asks. sometimes there's sex. it's a good time. come see!


End file.
